


Clown Boy

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: AU, Angst, Clown shoes, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever heard the one about the clown on anti-depressants?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clown Boy

Chester does his makeup in the mirror whilst you lounge on the bed with a cigarette. It’s hard to take him seriously when he turns to look at you, angry. His huge painted smile and rainbow coloured makeup doesn’t hide his scowl.

“You can’t smoke in here,” he says, “the land-lord will have a fucking fit.”

When he steps closer to take the cigarette you reach out and squeeze his nose, no expression on your face when it honks beneath your hand. He stares at you blankly from behind a layer of water proof makeup and you force a smile but it’s hard. Things used to be easier.

“You think sex solves everything,” he says, going to the window and flicking the cigarette out.

“Yeah. The only problem with it is that you don’t.”

Used to, though. The pair of you would fall into bed for days. But things have changed, now. You least of all expected to find out it was depression - diagnosed and official. Three pills daily, for the clown that cries himself to sleep. You had to go out and buy more expensive face-paint just so his tears can’t melt it when he takes a bathroom break at kids’ parties.

He goes over to the closet and digs around. It isn’t hard to find his shoes - not a size any human would wear - but he makes a meal of it anyway. Anything to delay the day. When he pulls them out he stops and holds them out, smiles weakly. “Can I catch a ride?” he asks. “I can’t drive in these damn things.”

You don’t want to get out of bed but you’re not going to say no to him. You roll out from under the sheets, naked, and shuffle toward him. Leaning in to kiss him softly. He turns his head away and you’re not surprised or particularly offended, but you still act it and turn away, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“Mike…”

“Why don’t you just quit? Hmm? If it’s so fucking terrible? You’ve never had a problem throwing in the towel before.”

“You know it’s not that simple. We have bills, responsibilities. I can’t…”

“Yeah,” you say, cutting him off. You know about the bills, the ones you file away every day they come through the post. An unwelcome reminder that you’re both living well beyond your means. The pair of you going from job to shitty job, never staying tied down to anything, didn’t exactly help.

You’ve only been at your casual call-centre job for a week, so you can’t exactly start a fight about wages or working hours or attitudes, because you’re not the one pulling in most of the money, really.

He doesn’t look at you as he fiddles with his bow-tie, trying to straighten it. The garish colours set off your headache and you look away, pinch the bridge of your nose. Sitting on the edge of the bed he pulls on his shoes, tying the laces slowly and deliberately.

“Have you taken your medicine?” You don’t know why you ask because he always does, religiously. You know he doesn’t want to feel this way, that he, like you, is hoping one day things will be better. But you feel pretty belligerent at the moment.

He looks up at you, blankly. “Don’t. Please don’t, not right now. I don’t have the energy to deal with this. And honestly, I’ll just walk or catch the bus if you’re going to be like this all the way there.”

“I’m sorry…”

“I know things aren’t…I know I’ve changed. But so have you. And I’m not…this isn’t funny, okay?”

It is a little bit, though, and you stifle a laugh. He stares at you in disbelief and you shake your head. “Sorry but…you’re like, it’s not funny, but you’re dressed like a clown, so it is a bit? Because…clowns are funny? You know? What clown isn’t funny?”

“The one who takes Diazepam,” Chester says, getting off the bed and sloping out of the room, his shoes squeaking loudly the whole way.


End file.
